


Sunday Best

by Siria



Category: Cupid (TV 1998)
Genre: Community: cliche_bingo, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-14
Updated: 2009-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:10:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a Sunday, but Claire had an emergency appointment at eight and had to roll muttering out from beneath warm sheets and the arms of a warmer, sleeping Alex. He kissed her shoulder, stubble scraping against her freckles, and mumbled something incoherent about tadpoles, and wanting her to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Best

**Author's Note:**

> A wee gift for sheafrotherdon. Many thanks to dogeared for betaing. Written for cliche_bingo for the prompt 'Drunkenness/Inebriation'.

It was a Sunday, but Claire had an emergency appointment at eight and had to roll muttering out from beneath warm sheets and the arms of a warmer, sleeping Alex. He kissed her shoulder, stubble scraping against her freckles, and mumbled something incoherent about tadpoles, and wanting her to stay. A lesser woman would have given in and crawled back under the comforter with him to warm her toes against his calves and her fingers against his belly, but Claire prided herself on being made of sterner stuff. Five years with Alex had required her to learn resilience and self-sacrifice—otherwise, she'd not only never get anything done, but she'd have a pretty constant case of beard rash on her inner thighs.

Her appointment took two boxes of tissues and almost four hours—not counting the brief interlude with Trevor and the flock of geese—and by the time Claire collapsed into a seat on the El trip home, her feet were killing her and she was working on a tension headache. This was the main reason why she tried not to work weekends anymore. Coaxing people through their marital traumas was a lot more difficult when she knew that Alex was waiting for her back in their apartment, pottering his way through their Sunday-morning routine without her: sleeping in in a sun-filled room; coffee and pastries from the little bakery around the corner; _Weekend Edition_ playing low on the radio and the _New York Times_' Sunday edition filleted and spread out across their scrubbed-pine kitchen table.

She was looking forward to all of that as she jogged up the stoop and let herself in. God, a hot shower and her oldest, most worn-soft pair of sweatpants and a buttery croissant sounded wonderful. When she poked her head around the door and called "Alex?" softly though, she didn't hear the radio, or smell fresh coffee brewing, or see him sprawled across the couch, stocking feet propped up on the arm-rest even though he knew Claire hated that.

"Alex?" she tried again, closing the door behind her and dropping her keys into the bowl on top of the dresser. Maybe he'd gone back out to the deli down the block to get them sandwiches for lunch. "Alex, are you—"

Then she heard the singing.

"Alex?" Claire poked her head around the kitchen door. Alex was sitting propped up against the cupboard, a section of the newspaper in one hand and an open bottle of Bushmill's single malt resting on his belly. He was wearing his rattiest old pair of sweatpants, socks and a dopey grin, and in a crow-like singing voice was imploring the universe to 'take on me', his vowels stretched out even more than usual.

"Alex? Honey?" Claire said when he drew breath before the next verse, "are you okay? Because if this is some kind of... early mid-life crisis, psychotic break, I'm a board-certified psychologist. I can help."

"I got a phone call this morning," Alex said, looking as proud of this as a toddler who has just successfully tested the boundaries of his personhood by scribbling all over the walls. "From Mike."

"Uh huh," Claire said warily, hunkering down to sit beside him. "And what did your agent have to say on a Sunday morning that had you reaching for the hard liquor?"

"My first novel," Alex said, "the one that has been languishing mid-list for the past five weeks? The one that made Trevor say 'Well, they can't all be the next _Great Gatsby_, hmm, though I have to say that that Zelda was one heck of a party animal. Killer gams.'?"

"I made him apologise for that!" Claire said. They'd been over that incident a few times.

"My first novel, thanks to word of mouth and that mention on Oprah, is now third on the _New York Times_ best seller list. The only books that sold more copies were those sparkly vampire things, so I'm basically on top when it comes to actual literera—littiter—words."

Claire's jaw dropped. _Tecumseh_ had received great reviews, but neither of them had been expecting that Alex's work would ever sell enough for him to be able to give up his day job. "Oh my god, Alex, that's—that's great! That's wonderful. Well done!" She leaned over and kissed him on his alcohol-sticky mouth, loving the feel of him pliant and joyful against her.

"I am really glad to see you," he said softly when she pulled away, enunciating each word as if it was very important. "Hello. I am a _success_. I _rock_."

"Yes, dear," Claire agreed, and settled in next to him, and made a silent vow not to say anything along the lines of _I told you so_ when Alex was moaning and looking for Pepto Bismol at six the next morning.

"Okay," he said, "okay. This is my Sunday plan. We are going to finish this bottle and get sloppy drunk and have authorial sex on the couch _and_ the bed and then I am going to call my brother and be aloof and smug. About being a best-selling author, not about having sex with you. Though I'm gonna be pretty smug about that, too."

Claire laughed. "Okay, Casanova. You and I are going back to bed."

"Ex'llent decision." He tried to hand her the bottle. "C'mon. Chug first."

"Uh uh," Claire said, standing and putting the bottle onto the kitchen counter.

"Spoilsport," Alex grumbled, grabbing hold of the cabinets and hauling himself upright in an unco-ordinated manner that seemed to involve more limbs than he actually had.

"No," Claire said, feeling unaccountably shy—and she hadn't meant to tell him like this, just yet, but she was sure, and this felt like a day for happiness. "It's not that I don't want to. I—I _can't_, Alex."

It took him a moment to get it, through a haze of fine Irish whiskey. She watched, anxious, as his expression changed from befuddlement to amazement and finally to something akin to glee. "A _baby_? We're—a real baby?"

"Yes," Claire said, laughing, "A real baby."

"Oh my god. I'm going to be a dad. A dad with a real baby and a book." He stared at her for a moment, eyes round, jaw slack, before cupping her face in his hands and kissing her until she was breathless. Then he dropped to his knees, pulled up her blouse and kissed her belly, though it hadn't yet begun to swell. "Hi, kid," he said. "You don't have a name yet, but the next book is totally going to be for you."

Claire bit her lip. "Okay," she said, "you know I'm going to tease you about this tomorrow morning, right?"

"Yup," Alex said, and looked up at her and grinned, "but I'm really really very Sunday-happy right now."

Claire rested one hand in his hair and tugged lightly on the short, fine strands. "Mmm," she said. "Me too."


End file.
